No More Dead Chipmunks
by INeedYourLove78
Summary: Enter Old Shep, stage left. KA-BOOM! This story stars Alvin Seville, a "football hero" now on detention; Brittany Miller, who absolutely hates his guts; Charlene Davis, who's in love with Alvin; Ms. Ortega, an evil English teacher who puts Alvin on detention; Blahowski, Alvins ex best friend; and Xavier, Alvin's fellow teammate. Could this get any crazier? Yeah, it's Alvin's life.
1. Honestly, detention?

**A/N: Ok, this is my new story, No More Dead Chipmunks, a retake on the story No More Dead Dogs. I have to admit I own nothing, not the characters nor the plot. Enjoy!**

**A/N(2): Hello again! So, I decided to go through and fix this story. I only have 12 chapters written, so I only edited those ones. I changed 'hes' to 'shes' and vice versa. Also names. And I put in line breaks. So enjoy the newly edited version. :)**

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**Chapter 1: Honestly, detention?**

**Alvin's POV**

When my mom was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, she once rescued eight Navy SEALs who were stranded behind enemy lines. She flew back using only her left hand, because the right one had taken a bullet. With the chopper on fire, and running on an empty tank and gas fumes, she managed to outmaneuver a squadron of MiG fighters and make it safely back to base.

That was my favorite story when I was small. It was also a total pack of lies. The bullet "scar" on Mom's arm was really left over from a big infected pimple. And by the time I was old enough to do the math, I realized that when the war ended in Vietnam, my mother was fifteen.

I was pretty clueless, like little kids can be. I thought my parents had a great relationship. The only thing they ever fought about was lying. And even then the arguments were short: Dad wanted the truth, and Mom wouldn't recognize it if it danced up and bit her on the nose.

But even though I didn't really understand what was going on, I guess it percolated down to me somehow. The more Mom lied, the more I told the truth.

My earliest memory is when the next-door neighbor asked my opinion on her light and fluffy cake.

I thought it over. "It tastes like vacuum cleaner fuzz. And the icing reminds me of antifreeze."

"Alvin, how could you _say_ such a thing?" my father wailed when we got home.

"Dad," I asked, "did Mom really miss my birthday party because she had to visit a sick friend?"

It didn't matter that he didn't answer. I had already seen the hotel bill on my mother's night table. The Desert Inn, Las Vegas.

I was more stuck on the truth than ever. For me, honesty wasn't just the best policy; it was the only one.

I told my soon-to-be ex-piano teacher that her fingernails reminded me of velociraptor claws. The cook at summer camp I informed that his pork chop could double as a bulletproof vest. My cousin Melinda's clarinet playing I described as "somebody strangling a duck."

"Must you be so-you know-colorful?" my dad moaned.

"When it's the truth," I said firmly.

"But the Abernathys are so proud of their new house! Did you have to announce that it's built on a slant?"

"It _is_! I dropped my yo-yo, and it rolled all the way to the kitchen."

"Alvin," he pleaded. "how can I make you understand-"

I used to wonder if things would have been different if I'd had the guts to tell my mom that she didn't have to be a war hero or an astronaut or a CIA agent. It was good enough for me that she was my mom.

I almost did it once. I was so close! But before I could get my mouth open, she said, "Alvin, have I ever told you about the time I put out oil well fires?"

Oil well fires.

So I gave up, and, eventually, so did Dad. I was in fifth grade when they got their divorce. By then, I wouldn't have told a lie at gunpoint.

That's why I never once complained about the black eye I got for telling Buzz Bolitsky he had the IQ of a Ring Ding. You won't see me crying over the fact that I haven't received a birthday present from Uncle Paul for two years. The fact is, Uncle Paul's toupee really _did_ look like a small animal had crawled up onto his head and died there. If he didn't want the truth, he shouldn't have said those fateful words: "Do you notice anything different about me?"

So when Ms. Ortega had us write book reviews in eight-grade English, I wasn't trying to be rude or disrespectful or even smart-alecky. I gave Ortega what I give everybody-the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth:

_**Old Shep, My Pal**__ by Zack Paris is the most boring book I've read in my entire life. I did not have a favorite character. I hated everybody equally. The most interesting part came on the last page where it said "The End." This book couldn't be any lousier if it came with a letter bomb. I would not recommend it to my worst enemy._

Ms. Ortega scanned the few lines, and glared at me, face flaming in anger. "This isn't what I assigned!"

I should say that I had nothing against Ms. Ortega at that moment. She was okay-the kind of young teacher who tries to be "one of the kids," but everything she does only shows how out of it she is. I just wanted to set the record straight.

"Yes, it is," I told her. "The assignment sheet said to give our honest opinion, write what was our favorite and character, and make a recommendation. It's all there."

"**Old Shep, My Pal **is a timeless classic!" roared the teacher. "It won the Gunhold Award! It was my favorite book growing up! Everybody loves it." She turned to the rest of the class. "Right?"

The reaction was a murmur of mixed reviews.

"It was okay, I guess."

"Not too bad."

"Why did it have to be so sad?"

"Exactly!" Ortega pounced on the comment. "It _was _sad. What a heartbreaking surprise ending!"

"I wasn't surprised," I said. "I knew Old Shep was going to die before I started page one."

"Don't be ridiculous," the teacher snapped. "How?"

I shrugged. "Because the dog always dies. Go to the library and pick out a book with an award sticker and a dog on the cover. Trust me, that dog is going down."

"Not true!" stormed Ms. Ortega.

"Well," I challenged, "what happened to Old Yeller?"

"Oh, all right," the teacher admitted. "So Old Yeller died."

"What about Sounder?" piped up John.

"And Bristle Face," added Ryan, one of my football teammates.

"Don't forget **Where the Red Fern Grows**," I put in. "The double whammy-_two _dogs die in that one."

"You've made your point," growled Ms. Ortega. "And now I'm going to make mine. I expect a proper review. And you're going to give it to me-during detention!"

* * *

"Nice grab, Alvin!"

I caught the short pass, and turned upfield.

_WHAM! _

Jacob Blahowski hit me at hip level, and I saw stars. It was a clean tackle-totally legal-but it was pretty hard for practice. This had less to do with Blahowski's toughness than it did with the fact that we used to be best friends.

"Jacob, are you crazy?"

Blahowski's body was yanked off of me, and the face of Xavier, our quarterback, took its place in my field of vision.

"Alvin, are you okay? Speak to me!"

I pushed him away and jumped up. "I'm fine, X. It was a legal hit."

Xavier looked daggers at Blahowski. "You _idiot_! You could've injured our best player. Why'd you have to nail him?"

Blahowski pulled off his helmet and down cascaded the longest, blondest hair at Shakopee Middle School. "What did you want me to do? Give him a pedicure?"

If there was one thing Blahowski had more of than hair, it was sarcasm.

"I'm not the best player," I told Xavier.

"Yes, you are," Xavier countered.

"I scored one touchdown all year," I insisted.

"Well, Jackass Jackass," my ex-best friend reminded me, "one is a pretty big number for a guy who spent the whole season on the bench."

"One is all it takes," Xavier pointed out, "when it comes with three seconds to go in the country championship."

Okay, that part was true. Actually, I was only on the field as a blocker. But Xavier panicked, and handed it off too high, stuffing the ball into my ex-best friend's face, jamming it between the mouth guard and the visor. Poor Blahowski never saw the two linebackers who sandwiched him. It sailed over the heads of both teams, and blooped into the end zone.

"It was a total fluke," I insisted. "Anybody could've jumped on the ball."

"But _you _did," Xavier told me. "And we won the championship."

They just didn't get it. It would have been great to be a football titan if it was the _truth_. But to act like an all-star when I was really a pretty mediocre player-that was almost as bad as lying.

I didn't give in. "Why does that make _me _the hero? Why not Blahowski's face, or even you, X? Without that bonehead handoff, we probably would have lost."

"Hey, man," Xavier said angrily. "Deep, deep down, a tiny little part of my brain sensed that I needed to do that. It was, you know, subhuman."

"You mean subconscious," I supplied.

"Whatever."

At that moment, Ryan sprinted up, with two of the defensive backs hot on his heels. "What's going on?" he panted. "Did Alvin get hurt?"

"He's fine," Blahowski assured him. My ex-best friend sounded disappointed.

In a way, I couldn't blame him. I was getting all this credit for being the best player, which is what Blahowski really _was_. He was an explosive receiver with great hands, he ran like a deer, and he could cover any position on defense. He was even the kicker, so good field position, extra points, and field goals all came from him. He ate right and worked out like a maniac. As team captain he had every reason to expect to be admired.

I didn't blame him for hating me; I blamed him for being a total jerk about everything else.

"Uh-oh," Ryan said suddenly. "Quit goofing off. Here come's my dad."

His father, Coach Wrigley, jogged up, blowing sharp blasts on his whistle. "Wait a minute, Seville! What are you doing here?"

The coach always called us by our last names. "Short passes, Coach."

"Not today," said Wrigley. "You're supposed to be on detention right now."

I gazed over the coach's shoulder. There, at the edge of the field, stood Ms. Ortega.

"_Detention?_" repeated Xavier. "But our first game is tomorrow."

"He should have thought of that before opening up his big mouth to Ms. Ortega," growled Coach Wrigley.

"I'm ready for tomorrow," I assure Xavier.

My ex-best friend reached out and patted the seat of my pants with his helmet. "I agree. Your butt is in perfect shape. Get ready to sit on the bench for another grueling season."

Xavier was not consoled. "But I wanted to practice the flea-flicker! Check it out: You take the handoff, toss it back to me, and I hit Blahowski with a fifty-yard bomb."

I had to laugh. "You couldn't throw a ball fifty yards if you swallowed a booster rocket off the Space Shuttle."

The coach rolled his eyes. "There's that famous honesty that makes people love you so much, Seville."

"Well, how about an extra workout tonight?" Xavier persisted.

"Can't," I said. "I've got to paint the garage door."

"Can't you get out of it?" wheedled the quarterback.

I dug in my heels. "It's just me and my dad. If I don't do it, who will? Unless"-I popped a sly grin-"you guys want to come and help."

"Not me!" chorused...everybody.

"Come on," I coaxed. "Last year it took ten minutes."

"Because you bamboozled half the team into painting with you," Blahowski pointed out.

"Not bamboozled," I said. "The guys all knew what they were getting into."

"Great," complained Xavier. "First you're on detention, and now we have to paint your stupid garage door if we want to have a flea-flicker. It's the icing on the gravy!"

I should probably explain about X-isms. Our quarterback had a way with words-the wrong ones. He could take two perfectly normal expressions and wind them together like a pretzel. _The icing on the gravy _was probably supposed to be _the icing on the cake_, but Xavier got mixed up with the idea that something extra could be described as _gravy_.

I had them hooked, so I reeled them in. "Come by right after practice," I invited. "I bought extra brushes for the whole offense."

There were groans of resignation from the team.

Coach Wrigley waved to Ortega on the sidelines.

"All right, he's coming." He turned to me. "Get out of here, Seville. Go serve your time."

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed Chapter 1! Lots more coming! But, since I'm so busy with my other stories, I'll only update this if I get at least 5 reviews! So, review! :)**

**A/N(2): You'd be surprised how much I had to change on this one. If you've already read this chapter you might notice I changed the name of the school to fit with the one I had changed it to. If you haven't read this yet, or if you have, review!**

_**"When life gives you a bowl of lemons, that's not very well painted, then you should make...dinner?" ~Bob Duncan**_


	2. Best friends! Not

**A/N: ****I know I said that to update I need at least five reviews, but I'm going back on that! Instead I'm adding chapter two right now! These people live in Shakopee, Minnesota, and it happens in the school district and streets of Shakopee. Did you know that the amusement park Valleyfair is there? It has over 60 rides! We went there over the weekend. Good times, good times. Ok, enough of me, here you go! I own nothing! :)**

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**Chapter 2: Best friends! (Not)**

**Brittany's POV**

_Dear Julia Roberts,_

_You are my favorite actress. Were you involved in drama when you were in seventh grade? If yes, was it tough to be a serious actress in middle school? It sure is for me. Sometimes I think I'm the only one working while everyone else is goofing off or flirting. Am I being reasonable here? Have you ever flirted with a guy while making movies? Don't feel bad if the answer is yes. You can do whatever you want to do because you're so famous. But student actors should have to concentrate harder, right? ..._

It was a long letter. I told her everything-about how I knew that acting was going to be my real career. Ever since my third-grade play, _Land of the Butterflies_. All the other kids rushed off the stage screaming when Justin Kidd, the gypsy moth, threw up all over his cardboard wings (gross). I alone held my pace among the giant construction-paper flowers, hugging my caterpillar costume tight and holding my breath until I passed out. Even at eight years old, I was the only one who understood-the show must go on! I'm sure Julia knew exactly what I was talking about.

Okay, I realized that Julia probably wasn't going to read this personally. When I write to movie stars, all I ever get back is an autographed picture or a postcard, or whatever they send to their fans. It just felt good to be communicating with Julia Roberts-you know, actress to actress.

"_Ow!"_

Charlene Davis elbowed me in the ribs. My pen clattered to the gym floor, but I held on to all four pages of Julia's letter and jammed it into my book bag.

"Look," Charlene whispered. "Know who that is?"

Ms. Ortega, the director of our play, had just come in.

"Not her!" Charlene hissed. "_Him! _The kid toweling off his hair."

I shrugged. "Some eighth grader. Why? Should I know him?"

"That's Alvin Seville," Charlene whispered.

"It can't be," I said sarcastically. "Where are his bodyguards?" No offense to the football hero (I'd never even met him). But if you weren't sick of hearing about last year's championship yet, you obviously didn't live in Shakopee.

Charlene ignored my humor. "He's _hot_."

I rolled my eyes. "Every time you're about to make an idiot out of yourself over some guy, it usually starts with the words 'He's hot'. That's warning sign number one."

"Well, he is!" Charlene insisted. "Look!"

And actually, Charlene had a point. I'd always thought football players were neckless wonders with muscles that went all the way up to the tops of their heads. But Alvin was almost slim, and really good-looking in a boy-next-door kind of way.

"His hair's too short," I murmured just to prove nobody's perfect.

"Too long," Charlene corrected. "When you're clipped that close, you should probably buzz it all off and go for the bald look. A lot of athletes do that."

That's when it dawned on me. "This is fantastic. I'll bet the whole school will come out for the performance when we spread the word that Alvin Seville is working with us."

"Don't count on it," warned Charlene. "Cool guys never go in for drama. If you want to act, you better do it for pure art, because guy-wise, it's the Doofus Patrol. See?" she added as Simon walked up to us.

Simon stared in horror at Alvin. "What's _he _doing here?"

"What's wrong with a little fresh blood in the drama club?" I asked.

"The sportos run everything at this school," Simon complained. "If they take over drama, there'll be nothing left for _us_!"

"Relax," I soothed. "The play is totally cast; we've all got our parts. Alvin is probably here to work on sets or something."

Ms. Ortega propped herself up on the edge of the stage. "Sorry I'm late, everybody. Let's get started."

I knew it would take a few minutes to hand out scripts, so I figured this was a good time for the president of the drama club (me) to welcome the newcomer. I approached Alvin. "Hi, Alvin, I'm Brittany. Are you here to work on props?"

He looked straight into my eyes. "No."

I frowned. "Set design, then?"

"No."

"Lighting?"

"Ortega said to come to the gym at three-thirty," Alvin told me. "This is the first I've heard about a play."

"You should sign up," I persisted. "Ms. Ortega adapted the book just for our school. She's directing it personally!"

"What book?" he asked without much interest.

"An award winner," I said proudly. "**Old Shep, My Pal**."

He groaned as if he had a bad stomachache.

I was kind of torn. I knew Alvin would be a great advertisement for our play. But I wasn't about to let him make fun of us.

"Ms. Ortega is a real professional writer, you know. She even had a play produced in New York once."

"If she's the next Shakespeare," Alvin challenged, "how come she's teaching middle school in Shakopee?"

I stared at him. "That's _rude_!"

"No it isn't." He looked me squarely in the eye again. "It's the truth."

"Brittany," called Ms. Ortega, "we're starting." To Alvin she added, "You can go when you've written a proper review of **Old Shep, My Pal**. Prove to me you've read the book at least."

I joined the cast in the circle of chairs. Charlene grabbed my arm, digging her painted fingernails into my wrist. "What's he like?"

"He's like a guy serving detention," I replied, "and he isn't really thrilled to be here."

"Yeah, but did he say anything about _me_?"

"That's warning sign number two," I whispered back.

She giggled. You couldn't insult Charlene Davis. She had a hide like a rhinoceros.

There was no feeling quite like the first day of rehearsal. To take simple words on paper and bring them to life was a fantastic challenge. It was like the birth of a new baby (I'm only guessing here).

Of course, you can't have a performance on the first day. You have a staged reading. We all gathered in a circle with our scripts, and went through the entire play with each actor saying his (or her) lines. Okay, some of the cast was fooling around a little. There was a lot of laughing when Eleanor choked on her gum, and when Theodore read "What can this dog do?" as "What is this, dog-doo?" Even Ms. Ortega had a pretty good laugh at Theodore's expense. That's part of the fun of drama.

The only person who found no humor in the situation was Alvin Seville. Ms. Ortega stuck him right in our circle, hoping our reading would inspire his book report (Ms. Ortega dreams in Technicolor). In fact, as the reading went on, I paid less and less attention to my part, and began concentrating on the paper in front of Alvin, who was right next to me.

This is what he wrote:

_The Lamont kids, Corey, Lori, Morry, and Tori, are always fighting. But when they find a dog that has been run over by a motorcycle, they all agree to nurse him back to health. They call him Old Shep, since he's a German shepherd. Then, just when it looks like Old Shep is going to get better, he dies. This could have easily happened back on page one when the motorcycle got him, but then this book would never have existed. What a shame._

"Pssst!" I hissed. "Cross that out!"

He grinned at me (nice teeth for a football hero).

I pointed to the last line. "That's not a review. That's mean."

"But true." He gave me the teeth again.

"No, it's not-"

"Brittany," came Ms. Ortega's voice.

I looked up to find that I was the center of attention.

Charlene kicked me under my chair. "It's your line!" she whispered.

I grabbed my script and began flipping pages, but I was hopelessly lost.

I'm not a tattletale, but this was all Alvin's fault (sort of).

"It's because of him," I accused. "He's writing a terrible review." I caught a wild-eyed look from Alvin, like he couldn't believe I was ratting him out.

Ms. Ortega's brow clouded up like a thunderhead. She stomped over and scanned the paper.

"This is unacceptable!" She frowned. "It's not a review; it's a plot summary, and not a very nice one at that."

"It proves I read the book," Alvin pointed out.

"You read the _words _but not the _meaning_," Ms. Ortega insisted passionately. "The rich themes, the wonderful characters-"

"I hated the characters, Ms. Ortega."

"You'd better be careful," warned the director. She indicated the cast (us) with a sweep of her hand. "I'll have you know you're talking to Corey, Lori, Morry, and Tori right here."

"I'm Tori," Charlene piped up. "Awesome touchdown last year. Is that a real Sabers windbreaker? I've never seen one of these up close before." She stuck her elbow in my face and reached over to brush his arm. "Ooh, nice material."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Give me a break!"

Alvin looked earnestly around the circle. "I've got nothing against you guys. I just didn't like the book, okay?" He stood up. "Well, thanks for-uh-having me-"

"Oh, you'll be seeing us all again," announced Ms. Ortega. "On Monday, right after school."

You could almost see the stubborn streak rise out of the creep's spine, straighten his neck, and come forward to stiffen his jaw. "I've got football practice."

The teacher shook her head. "Not anymore. Not until you complete the work I assigned you."

"But, Ms. Ortega," Charlene piped up, "Alvin is really important to the Sabers. You know, last year-"

"I know all about last year." The director cut her off. She looked at her watch. "We'll meet back here on Monday. That includes you, Alvin."

* * *

"Hey, Britt!"

I wheeled. My brother, Troy, was running toward Charlene and me.

"Careful!" I cried as he raced across Tenth Avenue without a glance to the left or right (part fearless; part stupid).

He was short for a ten-year-old, so his enormous book bag very nearly dragged along the pavement as he panted up.

"Didn't anybody ever teach you to look both ways before you cross the street?" I snapped.

"Not in middle school," Troy gasped, catching his breath. It was the biggest thrill in his life that the fifth graders had been moved out of Shakopee's five elementaries, so he could go to the same school as his older sister.

"How's it going, T-man?" grinned Charlene.

"Never mind that!" Troy exclaimed, as if he had no time for small talk. "The guy you just walked out of the gym with-wasn't that Alvin Seville?"

"Yeah? So what?"

"_The _Alvin Seville? The football player?"

"No, one of the other ninety-five guys named Alvin Seville in this town!" I said sarcastically. "What's the big deal?"

"Well, what did you say to him?"

Charlene glared at me. "Tell him, Brittany. You got the poor guy in trouble with Ms. Ortega."

"At least I didn't kiss up to him like you did," I snorted.

Charlene shrugged. "He's so cool."

"Warning sign number three," I intoned.

"I can't believe you know him!" Troy enthused. "He's practically in the NFL!"

"Know him?" Charlene repeated. "T-man, your sister and I- we're hooked up. Actresses always hang with the 'in' crowd."

Actresses? I hope she wasn't talking about herself.

"Wow!" breathed Troy. "Remember the big touchdown last year?"

"Don't you think it's time we all found something else to think about?" I suggested. "For instance, do you know what the school play is going to be this semester?"

But Troy was already running down the sidewalk, backpack bouncing with each step. "Hey, Mark! Guess who my sister's best friends with!"

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**A/N: Well, there you go! I'm going to start putting a quote in the author's note. Some of them will be funny, others more serious. Review!**

**A/N(2): Only a little editing was needed for this chapter. In the above Author Note I said I was going to start putting a quote here, but failed to do so on every other one. So that's something else I'll be adding. First chapter, too.**

**__****"Most people learn by observation, and there are a few who learn by experimentation. And then there are those who actually TOUCH the fire to see if it's really hot..." ~Anonymous**


	3. Painting and exile

******A/N: Hello! Welcome to chapter 3. Thank you for reviewing! Oh yeah, I finally figured out how to do line breaks.**

******A/N(2): I figured out how to do line breaks a while ago and inserted them into the other chapters. :)**

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**Chapter 3: Painting and Exile**

**Alvin's POV**

I applied the final brushstroke to the garage door. "See? What did I tell you? Fourteen minutes flat."

Eleven Sabers were there helping me paint. The guys never let me down when it came to jobs around the house.

"_Now _can we practice the flea-flicker?" asked Xavier, brushing at a paint stain on his jeans and making it worse.

Blahowski jumped up. "Good idea." He always showed up at my place out of team solidarity, but he never touched a paintbrush, or a hedge clipper, or a broom. My ex-best friend wasn't crazy about me _or _the idea of helping me out.

My father rounded the corner of the garage. "Great job, boys," he approved. "There's juice and soda in the kitchen if you're thirsty."

Ryan led the stampede into the house, Blahowski bringing up the rear with his famous slouch. That slouch was almost as trademark as his super-long blond hair.

"Come back!" cried Xavier. "We don't have time! The sun'll be down in forty-five minutes!"

I laughed. "Forget trying to control those guys where their stomachs are concerned."

Xavier started for the door. "You hit the nail right on the hammer," he muttered.

Dad took the brush from my hand and smoothed out a bubble in the paint. "You know, I probably could have managed on my own, Alvin. You don't need to call in the entire team every time a fuse needs changing."

I shrugged. "I like to do my share."

He whistled through his teeth, which was the signal that he had something on his mind. I waited.

"I've been mulling over this problem of yours at school," he began finally. "I think I've come up with a solution."

"Me, too," I replied. "What if there's an earthquake this weekend, and a giant crack opens up, and Ortega falls in?"

Dad pretended to consider this. "Not bad. But just in case that doesn't happen, why not try it my way?"

"I'm not going to lie." It was an old song I'd been singing all my life, and he was used to it.

"You don't have to," he said quickly. "Just write a serious paper on exactly why you think **Old Shep, My Pal **isn't any good. No wisecracks, no sarcasm, just a simple, solid essay. It's the girl's favorite book, Alvin. If you insult it, you're making fun of her."

"Anybody who likes that waste of toilet paper deserves to be made fun of," I observed.

"That's exactly the attitude that's been getting you in trouble," he reminded me.

I sighed.

* * *

I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped into the locker room on Saturday. The usual pregame chatter died all at one, like someone had pulled the plug.

I tossed my duffel onto the bench. "What is this, Joe's Funeral Parlor?"

Ryan put a sympathetic arm around my shoulder. "Listen, Alvin, before my dad sees you-"

Too late. Coach Wrigley rounded the corner, eyes shooting sparks. "Hello and goodbye, Seville. Get out of my locker room."

Honestly, I thought he was joking. "What are you talking about, Coach?"

"Detention is what I'm talking about!" roared Wrigley. "You're still on it!"

"Not on Saturday."

The coach shook his head. "School rules. If you're on detention, you can't play on a team, join a club, or go a field trip-even on weekends."

Did you know that school has more power than the government? I mean, it was a _Saturday, _not even a school day! How could Ortega have this much power over my life? I was so stunned that all I could manage was a very feeble "No kidding."

And if you think _I _was upset-

"Hey!" Xavier was framed in the doorway. He dropped his helmet with a clatter. "Detention was _yesterday_!"

Blahowski shook his head. "This is terrible, Jackass Jackass." And when nobody was looking, the rat _winked _at me. I was the only one in the locker room who knew how much my ex-best friend was enjoying this.

"It stinks, Dad," put in Ryan. "Ortega's got it in for Alvin."

"That's _Ms._ Ortega to you, pal," his father corrected him.

"But can't you talk to her?" Ryan pleaded. "Get her to go easy. It's out of Alvin's hands."

"Seville's hands aren't the problem," Wrigley snarled at me. "It's his mouth that keeps getting him into trouble."

"I can't believe we painted your garage door for nothing!" Xavier complained. "How can we try out my new trick play if you're not even in the game?"

"The flea-flicker?" I managed, still in shock.

"This one's even better," he assured me. "Check it out: You take the handoff, but instead of running, you look for me to go deep. Then you hit me for the surprise touchdown."

"That's why you became a quarterback," I pointed out. "You couldn't even catch a cold."

"Well, we'll never know _now_, will we?" Xavier seethed.

The coach put a friendly arm around my shoulder. "I've got some advice for you, kid. A lot of people think football is played on the field."

"You mean it isn't?" What was he talking about?

"Look around you. Ryan's on an all-celery diet to slim down and speed up. Wilkerson sleeps with a football to learn to hang on to it. Smith's trying to memorize the playbook so he doesn't have to invent something new on every snap. These battles don't have a down and distance. But they're battles that will help our team. And now you've got one, too. It's your job to get off detention."

"But Ms. Ortega won't-"

Coach Wrigley held up his hand. "Ms. Ortega is _your _problem. Now, get lost. And don't come back till you've straightened out your life."

The door closed, and I was outside the stadium for the first time ever on a football Saturday. It felt like being dead. I could see my life going on all around me, but I was a nonparticipant.

Okay, so I wasn't a football nut like Ryan or Blahowski, and certainly nowhere near to being a maniac like Xavier. But I liked the game, enjoyed the physical challenge, and I had a lot of friends on the team. How could all that be over just because I wasn't psyched about **Old Shep, My Pal**? I mean, wasn't this supposed to be a free country?

I thought back to the coach's words. _Could _I get myself off detention? Of course I could. If I was my mom, the words would have flowed like sap from a maple tree: _This is the greatest book ever written. I wish I could give it ten more awards. I cried at the heartbreaking awards. _By the time Mom was through, she and Zack Paris would have been old friends. They might even have been Green Berets together in "the 'Nam."

I gagged-I just couldn't do it. It went against everything I believed in to say one nice word about such a lousy book. No way-not for football-not for anything!

"Where are you going?"

A high-pitched voice jolted me out of my reverie. This little kid stepped into my path like he was a cop, stopping a fleeing bank robber.

I'm no bully, but I wasn't in the best of moods either. "I'm going home," I said wearily. "Get out of my way."

The kid seemed genuinely horrified. "But what about the game?"

I softened. Because of that fluke touchdown last year, I had _fans_, believe it or not, among some of the little kids around town.

"I can't play," I explained patiently. "I'm on detention."

"Detention? During football season?"

"Ortega wouldn't care if it was the last minute of the Super Bowl," I mumbled.

The runt started. "Ms. Ortega? That's Brittany's director!" I must have looked blank, because he went on, "My sister, Brittany. You know-your friend."

I ran down a mental list of everyone I knew. There were no Brittanys.

"You know," he insisted again. "The girl from the play."

"Oh. _That _Brittany." What a friend. If it wasn't for my friend Brittany, I might not even be on detention anymore. Although, to be honest, Ms. Ortega probably would have read my review even if dear Brittany hadn't squealed on me.

"I'm Troy, Brittany's brother." The way the kid said it, you'd think he was announcing himself as the Grand Duke of Luxembourg. "Do you want me to ask her to put in a good word for you?"

"I think Brittany's already put in enough words for me," I assured him. "So why don't you go and enjoy the game?"

The tragedy on his face was kind of flattering. "It won't be the Sabers without Alvin Seville!"

In spite of myself, I laughed out loud. "The bench will really miss me."

* * *

The Sabers lost on Saturday, and my phone started ringing at about five in the afternoon. Where was I? What happened? Why wasn't I at the game?

"Dad, why don't you answer the phone for a while?"

"Well, okay, Alvin," he agreed, "but I'm going to have to tell people you're not here. And that wouldn't exactly be true, would it?" He always knew how to get to me.

"Forget it," I mumbled. The phone was ringing again.

So I reprogrammed our answering machine: _"Hello. This is Alvin Seville. If you're calling to find out why I wasn't at the game today, it's because I'm on detention. Anyone else can leave a message at the beep."_

That brought me through the weekend okay. But on Monday morning I was mobbed in the school yard. It was always the same stuff. Where was I? Why didn't I play? And how could I sit by and watch the Sabers get creamed by a last-place team? I was tempted to step into my locker and pull the door shut behind me.

No way was I going to get stuck in the crush of people at the front entrance. A few minutes before the bell rang, I climbed in through the bathroom window.

And just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, they did. There, combing his ridiculously straight, ridiculously long, ridiculously blond hair, was my ex-best friend.

Blahowski smiled sweetly. The guy had an uncanny ability to look like an angel while he was cutting you to pieces. "Well, if it isn't Doofus Doofus," he said with all the charm of a cobra. "We missed you on Saturday. Our whole bench was out of balance. We need your weight to anchor it firmly to the field."

"You sound like you're happy about losing," I accused.

He shrugged. "_I _scored a couple of touchdowns."

That was classic Blahowski. The team and everybody on it could go hang, so long as he looked good. That's why the events of last year's championship game stuck in his throat so badly. It was Blahowski who was officially credited with the fumble, since his face had made him the last Saber to touch the ball before I pounced on it for the win. I guess the guy took a lot of grief from people about playing goat to my hero. Blahowski had never really forgiven me for that, and I personally wasn't holding my breath for his forgiveness.

"Stop combing," I seethed. "You're driving me crazy."

"It's tough to be me." He smiled, pocketing his comb. "Every day is a good hair day." His grin never wavered. "So, Doofus Doofus, I have to tell you about this fantastic book I've been reading."

"I didn't know you could read," I muttered.

"It's called **Old Shep, My Pal**," he continued airily. "By Zack Paris. What a genius! You'd have to be a complete idiot not to love this masterpiece."

I glared at him. "All right, enough. You know why I'm on detention. Who told you?"

"A little birdie. But I know something nobody else does."

"What's that?" I growled.

"You," he chortled. "So if Ortega is waiting for you to change your mind, this is going to be the longest detention in the history of school."

I bristled. "Not necessarily!"

"Shame, shame." He wagged a finger at me. "If you don't lie to anyone else in the world, you shouldn't lie to yourself either."

The bathroom door burst open, and in panted a fat, greasy kid with a tape recorder stuck out in front of his stomach like a hood ornament.

Blahowski grinned. "Make way for the press."

Brody Schmidt, alias Broady Zit, was a reporter for the Shakopee Middle School Weekly Standard- the only reporter. He was also the editor, publisher, printer, and delivery boy-everything except the fact checker. They didn't have one of those, which explained why the Standard was full of _mis_information, _dis_information, and _un_information. It was a big joke around school that the Standard's motto was _If we don't mess it up, we make it up._

"I thought I saw you climbing in here," Brody wheezed, out of breath. "I have some questions for you, Alvin, about the Sabers game."

I indicated by ex-best friend. "You're in luck. We've got the captain of the team right here."

But he ignored Blahowski as if he wasn't there. "Why don't you just come out and admit the big cover-up?"

Brody thought he worked for _60 Minutes._

"Yeah? What am I covering up?"

"A career-ending injury," the reporter accused.

"That's it!" crowed Blahowski. "He's developed a chronic charley horse of the butt!" He shook his head. "This could keep you out of Benchwarmer's Hall of Fame, Doofus Doofus."

"Cut it out!" I snapped. "He's going to believe you and print it!"

Brody took another wild guess. "There's a personality conflict between you and Coach Wrigley! Or maybe you think you're just too good to play for a middle school team."

Blahowski decided to be helpful. "Hey, Broady, why don't you ask Doofus Doofus why he's spending so much time with Ms. Ortega lately?"

"Shut up-" I began.

But Brody jumped all over that. "What's your English grade, Alvin?"

"None of your business!" I seethed.

"I can find out, you know. I've hacked the code on the office computer."

"It's an _incomplete_!" cackled my ex-best friend. "And you know why-?"

I threw my book bag at him, but he ducked, and it hit Brody, knocking the tape recorder out of his hand. I lunged at Blahowski, but he danced out of my grasp.

"Still the lousy tackler." He laughed, and bolted out the door.

I chased him all the way to homeroom.

* * *

******A/N: I hope you liked! What do you think will happen next? I have the next chapter, but I will take suggestions! Review! :)**

******A/N(2): Yep! Feel free to PM or review to suggest a scene. I will most likely use it!**

_**"Behind every great man there's a woman rolling her eyes." ~Bruce Almighty**_


	4. Gimme an A or I won't play

** A/N: This is a newspaper article! Everyone in the story and at the school read it, BTW! Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4: Gimme an A or I won't play**

* * *

**The Shakopee Middle School**

** Weekly Standard**

"**Gimme an A or I Won't Play!"**

**Superstar Holds Out for Better Grades**

By Brody Schmidt, Staff Reporter

In these days of sports agents and multimillion dollar deals, Shakopee Middle School's brightest star has gotten in on the game of high-stakes contract negotiation. Only instead of a fat paycheck, Alvin Sevlle is demanding a fat report card.

The Standard has learned from a reliable source that Alvin, the hero of last year's Sabers, has refused to play for this year's team until Ms. Ortega brings his English grade up from an _incomplete. _

Alvin himself refused to respond to the allegations. When pressed, he became violent and attacked this reporter with a heavy book bag, causing a severe sprain of the right index finger, and numerous scrapes and abrasions to an expensive tape recorder.

Ms. Ortega was unavailable for comment...

* * *

_**"I adore rock, paper, scissors. Although, where I come from, we call it 'quartz, parchment, shears'." ~Pops**_


	5. Old Shep, Dead Mutt

******A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing! Virtual cookies to you all! I know its been forever, but I'm going to be honest: I have really wanted to update something, _anything, _of mine, but I just couldn't get the inspiration. So I'm updating now. If you need a recap, last chapter was the newspaper article. Anyways, enjoy! :3**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Old Shep, Dead Mutt**

**Brittany's POV**

I thought I was going to drop dead when I walked into rehearsal Monday afternoon. There it was, the big wooden scenery board that was going to be designed to look like the Lamont house. Right across the top, someone had spray-painted: OLD SHEP, DEAD MUTT.

It was so awful that it made me feel sick. It showed absolutely no respect for the play, the actors, the director, the scenery painters, the book-

Beside me, Charlene brayed a laugh right into my ear, "Old Shep, Dead Mutt! Yeah, that's funny!"

"Well, I don't think so," I said with feeling. Who was mean enough to do a rotten thing like this?

I stopped myself just as I was about to blurt out Alvin's name. I'd already blown the whistle on him once. And anyway, I didn't have to. Simon Spitzner beat me to it.

"Alvin Seville did it! It must have been him! He's the only one who hates **Old Shep, My Pal**!"

"Shut up, bigmouth!" snapped Charlene.

"Calm down, everyone," ordered Ms. Ortega. "I won't have anyone accused without proof. We'll ask Alvin when he gets here."

"I'm here now" came a voice from behind us.

Our cast parted to give Alvin a view of the scenery board, and Mr. Sensitivity laughed out loud. Only Charlene (suck-up) laughed with him.

And then he stopped laughing, and an angry look came over his face. "You think _I_ did this!" he exclaimed.

"Did you?" asked Ms. Ortega.

"No!"

"He's lying!" yowled Simon. "I saw him climbing in the bathroom window! I'll bet he snuck into the gym with a paint can!"

Alvin shrugged. "What's the big deal, anyway? It's painted, not carved rock like Mount Rushmore."

"He's right," pointed out Jeanette Ramone, who was in charge of set design. "It won't be hard to paint over it."

"We shouldn't have to paint over it," I put in darkly. "It's not supposed to be there."

"I agree," Alvin said to me. "And I repeat: I had nothing to do with it."

You know, I honestly would have forgiven him if he'd just come out and admitted that he did it because he was angry about his detention. Everybody understands what it's like to feel frustrated. But how can you sympathize with a guy who just stands there, right after he's practically been _proven _guilty, and won't own up? He obviously didn't take responsibility for the things he did. Look how he had misled poor Brody Schmidt. There wasn't one word about detention in that newspaper article. Alvin had managed to convince Brody that he was such a football star that he didn't have to earn his grades like everybody else. That's the whole problem with athletes. They get treated like gods, and it goes to their heads.

Alvin pulled a few sheets of paper from his backpack, and handed them to the director. "I did this review over the weekend. I was hoping maybe you could read it over right away, and I could catch the second half of football practice."

Ms. Ortega started to read. I could tell right off the bat that it wasn't a howling success when I caught sight of the title: "Eleven Reasons Why **Old Shep, My Pal** Is a Terrible Book." Sure enough, there it was on Ms. Ortega's face, her Alvin expression: red neck, worry lines, eyes magnified, and a thick, bulging vein in her forehead.

"What is this?" she barked.

Alvin kept his cool. "Since you wouldn't accept my honest opinion of the book, I figured you wanted me to give you the reasons I feel that way."

"Well, they aren't _valid _reasons!" growled Ms. Ortega. "Look at number one: 'The characters are unrealistic.' That's not true! Why, I feel like I've known the Lamont kids all my life. They're as real to me as you are."

"I hope not," Alvin replied earnestly. "I know for a fact that I've never said anything as stupid as, 'Great heavens, this dog has suffered an injury!'"

"That's not in the book!" snapped the director.

Theodore's hand shot up. "Actually, Ms. Ortega, yes it is. It's my first line after we discover Old Shep in the road."

I checked my script, so did Ms. Ortega. Sure enough, there it was.

"Okay, it may be a little old-fashioned," Ms. Ortega admitted. "The book was published in 1951. Besides, what's he supposed to say? We have to let the audience know he's found the dog."

Alvin shrugged. "Not 'Great heavens.' How about something normal like 'Hey!' or 'Look at this' or even 'Check it out!'? That's how people talk."

I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing up straight. The nerve of this guy, this _football player_, telling us what to do with our play! And not just us; Ms. Ortega, a real professional writer!

Theodore spoke up. "So you think we should change the line to 'Check it out, this dog has suffered an injury'?"

Alvin looked disgusted. "Why do you have to say anything? The audience has eyes, you know. They can see an injured dog. So if the guy says, 'Check it out,' and he's looking at the dog, it's obvious what he's talking about. That's the main reason the Lamont kids are so phony. They never shut up."

"Why should we listen to you?" sneered Simon. "What do you know about plays?"

"Nothing," Alvin replied. He said it proudly, as if being interested in the theater was something to be ashamed of. Maybe that was an athlete thing, too. I'll bet Alvin was going to be a celebrity for painting OLD SHEP, DEAD MUTT on the scenery. That's just the kind of thing his football buddies would look up to.

Ms. Ortega handed Alvin back his latest paper. "This is unacceptable. Your detention is not canceled. And I'd better not find out that you had anything to do with that act of vandalism. Now, the rest of us have a rehearsal to run."

"Ms. Ortega," piped up Theodore, "can I do my first line the way Alvin said? I like it better that way."

I'm positive our director was dying to say no. But her face twisted into a strangled smile, and she replied, "Certainly. I'm the kind of director who believes that a play belongs to its actors. None of you should ever be shy if you have suggestions."

Charlene's hand shot up. "I've got a bunch of lines I hate, too. Can I get Alvin to fix them up?"

This time, Ms. Ortega's smile didn't really come off that well. "Uh-"

But Charlene was already waving her script under Alvin's nose. "See here where I have to say, 'Sweet little doggie, we shall nurse you back to health'? Pretty lame, huh?"

"It stinks," Alvin agreed.

"So?" Charlene prompted. "What should I say instead?"

Alvin looked to Ms. Ortega for permission.

This time our director's vein was bulging even more than usual. "Go ahead," she muttered.

Alvin turned back to Charlene. "Try 'Easy, pup, you're going to be just fine.'"

"That's great!" shrieked Charlene, writing it onto her script. "Now, how about here on page seven-"

"That's enough rewriting for one day," Ms. Ortega decided.

* * *

_Dear Julia,_

_It's me again, Brittany Miller. I know you haven't answered my last letter yet, but I had a couple more questions I wanted to ask. Do you ever have anyone hassle you while you're acting? Let's say you're shooting a movie, and some really good-looking guy is hanging around the set-like Leonardo DiCaprio, or maybe Brad Pitt. He isn't acting in the movie; he's just there because maybe he got in trouble with the studio, and they're making him stay, like a detention. I know movie stars don't get detentions. But I've got a real problem here, so __please __keep reading..._

"Brittany," my mom called. "Go get Troy for dinner."

I stuffed my letter into a drawer to finish later. "Aw," I groaned, "he doesn't even listen to you. What makes you think he'd listen to me?"

"Because if he doesn't, his chamber of horrors is going out the window, and he's going with it."

She wasn't kidding about the chamber of horrors. It was written right on his bedroom door, in letters dripping with blood. I hated going in there. Sweet little Troy always had plenty of (sick) surprises for intruders, like a spider the size of a dinner plate, a true-to-life plastic skeleton that would wish you "Good evening" if you got too close, and fake trailing cobwebs (or maybe they were real. Troy wasn't much of a housekeeper).

I knocked tentatively on the toxic waste sign. "Troy. Dinner."

"Come on in, Britt."

I shuddered. "Do I have to?"

The door opened, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. Actually, the chamber of horrors wasn't so bad this time. There was a lot of football stuff amid the mummies, vampire bats, and boa constrictors. In the place of honor on the night table (beside the disembodied hand), sat an eight-by-ten photograph from last year's championship. It was Alvin Seville, the hero, flying through the air, his body parallel to the ground, diving onto the ball for the winning touchdown. That stupid picture was displayed in every dry cleaner and doughnut shop in Shakopee, even now, almost a year later.

I delivered my message. "Dinner's ready."

"Did you talk to Ms. Ortega?" Troy asked eagerly.

"I talk to her every day," I replied, purposely misunderstanding.

"You know what I mean," he insisted. "About getting Alvin off detention."

I sighed. "It's not up to me, Troy. Alvin Seville _belongs_ on detention. Detention was _invented _for people like him."

"Well, couldn't you get him, like, a suspended sentence? Or a delay until after football season?"

I rolled my eyes. "If Alvin wanted to be back on the team, he could do it in two seconds. He won't write his paper. He doesn't even try anymore. He's stopped bringing a pen to the gym. He's too busy bugging people, anyway."

Troy stuck out his jaw. "How?"

"By interrupting our rehearsals."

"What do you mean interrupting?" he persisted.

I swallowed hard, trying to be fair. "He makes-suggestions."

He stared. "What kind of suggestions?"

"On how to make the play better."

_...Julia, you should have seen him! He couldn't believe that his so-called idol could have anything to add to a play. I know you have a brother, too. But since he's also a famous actor, I'll bet he's a lot more supportive of your life's work. You're lucky._

_But to get back to this guy, the one who's been messing with our play (his name is Alvin). Here's the thing-I don't know what burns me up more; that this jock, who spray-painted OLD SHEP, DEAD MUTT on our scenery, is changing our script, or that his ideas are actually (it kills me to say this) pretty good._

_Your #1 fan, _

_Brittany Miller._

* * *

**A/N: Looks like Brittany REALLY does NOT like Alvin. But from previous chapters, we know that Alvin does not lie. So did he really paint OLD SHEP, DEAD MUTT on the scenery? All signs point to him. Or someone else? Review, espicially if you have any questions! :)**

_**"What? You can't explode my brain. That's gotta be illegal." ~Rigby**_


	6. Teen Dazzle

**A/N: Hello everyone! This chapter of NMDC (No More Dead Chipmunks) will be kind of different. You're used to having either Alvin or Brittany's POV, right? Well, this chapter will be written in Charlene's POV. So remember that and don't get confused. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Teen Dazzle**

**Charlene's POV**

When I saw the yellow Post-it note, _It's here,_ stuck to the door of my locker, I headed straight for the library. Mrs. McConville was so cool. She always let me be the first to read the new issue of _Teen Dazzle_ magazine, even before it got catalogued into the computer.

I sat down at a research table and flipped through the pictures of clothes I couldn't afford and makeup my parents wouldn't let me wear. The Quiz of the Month caught my eye. It was called "Is the Perfect Boyfriend Right Under Your Very Nose?" I loved these quizzes. Of course, I cheated a little, like the time I fudged the answers so I could have every single thing in common with the national beach volleyball champion. But this time it was mega-important to do an honest job. I had a sneaking suspicion that someone pretty special was about to enter my life.

_Question 1: Do you feel your pulse quicken when you see him? _That was a tough one. Every day after classes I ran to rehearsal so fast I was, like, hyperventilating by the time I got to the gym. According to the Aerobic Workout Chart in Coach Wrigley's office, my heartbeat was the same as a normal person after twenty minutes of calisthenics. Did it get any faster when he showed up? I answered _YES AND NO_.

_Question 2: Do you think about him constantly? _Well, how much counts as constantly? I know for a fact that I thought about him nineteen times in Spanish class alone. Figure eight periods per day, plus nights. So I probably thought about him, like, two hundred times a day, maybe more. Was that constant enough? I scribbled down _SORT OF._ They should be a lot more specific about something this important!

_Question 3: Do you find yourself overlooking his faults? _Well, that was the stupidest question of all. How could Alvin Seville have faults?

Not only did he single-handedly win the championship for the Sabers last year, but he was a dramatic genius, too! Maybe even a genius-plus! Because Zack Paris was a regular genius, and Alvin was thinking up much better dialogue for our play. Five minutes didn't go by in rehearsal without one of the actors calling out, "Hey, Alvin, have you got a better line for...?" or "Can you think of a more realistic way to say...?" And Alvin would always have the perfect answer.

We were all totally stumped when Leo Samuels, who played Mr. Lamont, didn't want to say, "We must look deep within our souls to accept this tragedy." But Alvin barely thought about it for a second before coming up with "Your dog died. Get used to it."

"That's not the same thing at all!" raged Ms. Ortega.

But everybody else saw how much better it was, and Ms. Ortega got sick of being outnumbered with only Simon Spitzner on his side.

She looked daggers at Alvin. "All right, we'll try it your way."

"I don't have a way," Alvin replied honestly. "People asked my opinion, and I gave it."

When Alvin cops that confident attitude, it makes me weak in the knees. _Teen Dazzle_ should be asking questions about stuff like that!

"For someone who doesn't care diddley-squat for our play," Simon accused, "you sure seem to have an awful lot to say about it!"

"Hey." Alvin stood up. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Well, if you'd write your paper, you wouldn't be!" exclaimed the teacher.

And so on, blah, blah, blah. Ms. Ortega just couldn't see that she'd never get Alvin to write that paper. Which was another thing that was awesome about Alvin. He would stand up to anybody. And being totally gorgeous didn't hurt either. I'd love to run my hand over that buzz cut of his. I'll bet it would feel like a very soft brush. A lot of people think _nerd_ when they see a short haircut, but it wasn't that was at all with Alvin. His hair was more like, if he was in a rock group, the band would wear really thin ties. Other qualities I like about him: his voice, his _name_. Also his posture, how everybody looked up to him, and his shoelaces. Last month, _Teen Dazzle_ did an article called "Learning a Guy's Secrets from His Clothes." You can tell a lot from the way someone ties his shoelaces. I'd never get involved with a sloppy-looper, or one of those weird alternative-knot types. But Alvin's sneakers were simple, neat, and tight. I got goose bumps the first time I got a good look at them.

I was in the cafeteria line, and because I was looking down, I forgot to hold my plate steady. I guess it moved just as the lunch lady released a humongous scoop-bomb of mashed potatoes. The load dropped past my dish, over the counter, and right onto Alvin's shoes. I was shocked. One minute the laces were there, all taut and perfect; the next they were buried in food.

Alvin and I both squatted down with napkins to clean up the mess. Our eyes locked, and it would have been pure romance if I hadn't tilted my tray, spilling just enough cranberry juice to turn the mashed potatoes pink.

As it was, I couldn't resist blurting, "Do you want to come to the mall with me this afternoon?"

I'll never forget his reply from the floor as he tried to pick up the slop:

"No."

What a great guy! On top of everything he was so _nice_! After all, he easily could have said something really negative! That's when I knew it was more than my third crush of the year. This time it was, like, _love_. You know?

Brittany definitely didn't approve. "You're making an idiot out of yourself, Char," she informed me. "Alvin Seville doesn't even know you're alive. If you keep throwing yourself at him, he'll probably spray-paint something on you, too: OLD SHEP, DEAD MUTT: THE SEQUEL."

"You have no proof Alvin had anything to do with that," I retorted.

"Nothing except motive and opportunity," she agreed. "Plus who else could it have been?"

"Alvin wouldn't hurt the play," I told her. "He's _helping_!"

"Just because he's killing time on his detention doesn't make him one of us," Brittany insisted.

"Yeah, well, you're wrong!" I said accusingly. "And I'll prove it."

I could hardly wait for rehearsal the next day. I was all set to talk to the whole cast and clear Alvin's name-explain what a great guy he was. Only I never got to do it. When I walked into the gym, there was a terrible ruckus going on. Ms. Ortega was shouting, Eleanor was crying, Simon was pointing, and Alvin was denying. Our whole crew, stagehands, set painters, lighting and sound people, were staring in awe up at the stage. There, dead center, was a four-foot-high ball of knots made up of every microphone cable, spotlight cord, and speaker wire in the drama department. They were tied tightly together by the curtain ropes.

It was the great-granddaddy of all knots, a snarl that could take years to untangle.

"Who would do such a thing?" I quivered.

And all eyes were fixed on Alvin Seville.

* * *

**A/N: Oh no! Did Alvin make the knot? If not, (not, knot! Get it? =D) who did? Tell me in a review! Peace out! :)**


	7. Reports

**A/N: Ok! Olo everyone! I know you haven't heard a lot from me for a while, or a week, but that's because I was visiting some family in Indiana, so I didn't have any time to update or review anything, but I have been reading everyone's stories, k? So enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Reports**

**Alvin's POV**

_**Old Shep, My Pal **__is the best book ever! I love it so much because it is amazing, awesome, excellent, and stupendous, and also really, really great! There could never be a better book to get forced to read for homework! It is the crop of the litter!_

No, I didn't write that. It was on the typed paper that Xavier placed on my kitchen table after the Sabers' second loss on Saturday.

I stared at it. "What do you expect me to do with this?"

"Hand it in!" our quarterback insisted. "You can't tell a lie, but I can. So I wrote you a review to get you back on the team. I even signed your name. See? Doesn't that look like your signature?"

"Except that there's only one L in Alvin," I agreed.

He slapped his forehead. "I'll cross it out and sign it again. It doesn't have to be perfect; it just has to get you off detention."

I sighed. "Come on, X, there's no way a review written by you is going to look like it came from me. Ortega would see right away that you didn't read the book. It doesn't even say anywhere that Old Shep is a dog!"

Xavier looked shocked. "He is? I always thought he was a sheep."

I shook my head. "You didn't even look at the cover, did you?"

He bristled. "Hey, man, I did _writing_ for you! You know how much I hate writing!"

"Look." I took a deep breath. "I wouldn't hand in somebody else's work and say it's mine, even if Ortega would never know the difference."

Xavier's face fell. "Are you sure? 'Cause Ryan's working on a really classy one. And he _did_ read **Old Shep, My Pal**." He looked thoughtful. "Maybe I should've asked him about the sheep thing."

I faced him seriously. "I hate being off the team. And I'll be back on the second Ortega gives the word. But, X, you've got to face facts. You're losing by four touchdowns a game. I've only scored one touchdown in my entire life."

"But we were so great last year," Xavier protested. "And the only difference this year is you. It's pure logicalness."

"It's not logicalness." When you spend a lot of time with Xavier, the words he invents tend to become real. "Last year we were all in seventh grade. The eighth graders made up most of our starters. Now they're in high school. The only legitimate star we've got is-" and this really hurt, but after all, the truth was the truth-"Blahowski."

Xavier was stubborn. "Even Blahowski knows the team needs you. After yesterday, he said that if you'd been playing, we probably would have won."

I was taken aback. "_Blahowski_ said that?" If there was one Saber who understood my true value to the team-benchwarming-it was my ex-best friend. I mean, he never missed an opportunity to rub it in my face. So how come I was suddenly Mr. Essential?

That rotten Blahowski was probably trying to work it so that the Sabers' two losses would be blamed on me.

I struggled to be patient. "Blahowki's just making trouble as usual. When all this is over, and I come back, Coach Wrigley is going to put me where he always puts me-the bench. And the Sabers are still going to stink."

Xavier got so gloomy that he didn't even try to argue. "You're never coming back," he mourned. "You're going to be on detention till the cows freeze over."

"Hi, Xavier." My dad breezed through the kitchen, jingling his car keys. "Sorry about the Sabers."

"Mr. Seville, talk to your son," Xavier pleaded. "Make him see how much the team needs him."

Dad smiled sympathetically. "I'd have a better chance convincing a compass to point south. I'll be right back, Alvin. I'm going to the car wash."

I jumped up. "That's okay. I'll wash the car."

He looked at me. "Are you sure you don't have something more important to do? Like writing a book review?"

"I'll wash the car," I repeated. "Xavier'll help, right?"

Xavier flashed his paper. "If you'll hand this in to Ortega, I'll cut your lawn, too. I'll do anything to get you back on the team."

We were just unrolling the hose when Ryan rode up on his mountain bike, a stick of celery protruding from his mouth like a cigar. He waved a piece of paper of his own. "Hey, Alvin," he mumbled. "Guess what I've got!"

I took a stab at it. "My review of **Old Shep, My Pal**?"

The celery dropped to the pavement. "How did you know?"

It was easy to maneuver a polishing rag into Ryan's meaty hands. Recruiting helpers normally put me in an A-1 super-good mood, but this time I was too aggravated to enjoy it. When the car was done and Xavier and Ryan headed home for dinner, I marched down the block to the Blahowski house.

Mrs. B. greeted me like a long-lost son. She'd never quite figured out that her little Stevie and I were no longer friends. She directed me down to the basement where Blahowski was busy lifting weights. Even flat on his back and sweating, he looked like he had just waltzed off the cover of _Male Model_ magazine.

"Well, if it isn't Jackass Jackass," he puffed. "What can I do for you, besides a brain transplant?"

I leaned on the barbell, pressing it against my ex-best friend's chest. "I'm on to you!" I snarled down at him. "Where do you get off telling the team I would have made the difference?"

"You've put on a few pounds," he observed, gasping a little, but not nearly enough to make me feel better.

"If you think you can trick the guys into blaming _me_ for their lousy season-"

Slowly, he raised the weight in spite of all my efforts. He was strong as an ox. He said, "How can you think about that when a criminal is loose at school?"

That caught me off guard. I released the barbell, and Blahowski racked it and sat up.

"Someone is trying to sabotage the school play," he explained pleasantly. "I've worked up a little profile for the prime suspect. It has to be someone who doesn't like **Old Shep, My Pal**, has a grudge against Ms. Ortega, and spends a lot of time in the gym. Remind you of anybody?"

To get any hotter, I would have had to be on fire. "It isn't me!" I seethed. "And you know it!"

"Don't freak out, Jackass Jackass." He lay back down and resumed his bench-pressing. "Of course _I_ realize you're telling the truth. But not everybody knows you so well. So if the teachers get the wrong idea, that could keep you off the team even longer."

In a rage, I slipped an extra twenty-five-pound plate onto the left side of his bar. And while he was struggling to balance that, I did the same to the right side. Now fifty pounds heavier, the bar pinned him across the chest.

I sat down to observe him squirming his way out of it. That was another weird thing about Blahowski. He would rather spend the rest of his life trapped under that weight that weight than ask me for help. He pushed and wriggled and strained and sweated, but the extra iron was just too much for him.

"Need a hand?" I asked finally.

"No." It was barely a wheeze.

Hey, you've got to respect a guy's wishes. From the stairs I noted that all that struggling had done nothing to spoil his good hair day.

_**Research**_

_Very Guilty /_

_Sort of Guilty /_

_Innocent /_

_Other /_

That information was scribbled on the back cover of _Teen Dazzle _magazine. Charlene Davis stuck it right in my face in the gym on Monday after school.

"What is it?" I asked her.

"My survey," she explained. "You know, on who's been doing all that stuff to the play."

If ditziness was snow, this girl would be Alaska. The only thing louder than Charlene is her nail polish.

"Sort of guilty? What does that mean?" I challenged.

"It means guilty, but only-you know-sort of."

"Well, I'm glad you cleared that up," I said sarcastically.

"Don't worry, Alvin," she soothed. "Out of the thirty-two guilties, twenty-seven said that your advice on the play is so good, they don't care what you did."

"But I didn't do _anything_!" I insisted.

"Just keep pumping out those great lines," she assured me with a smile framed by tomato-red lipstick. "The tide is turning our way. I can feel it."

I handed back her chart with a groan. "What does 'other' mean?"

"Brittany refused to answer, and Simon used a word I didn't understand." She checked her notes. "Disembowelment. What does that mean?"

I sighed. "Remember the last scene in _Braveheart_?"

She winced. "Ooh, that's nasty. Well, don't sweat it. He's only one person."

I nodded. "Less if you're counting by chins."

* * *

I walked through the halls on my way to rehearsal. I stopped at my locker to get out my notebook and pencil. I know. I barely try anymore. But if the teacher won't except the truth, then she'll grade a lie. I could never do that, lie.

I slammed my locker and turned around, only to come face to face with Brittany Miller. She glared at me, her eyes scanning me until they stopped on my notebook.

I rolled my eyes. "What now?"

She was silent for a moment, until she cried, "Alvin, just write a proper review! She'll leave you alone once your do."

I sighed and shook my head. No one understood. "I'm just telling the truth," I insisted. "Why should I lie?"

Brittany folded her arms. "Alvin, what's better: A lie that brings a smile; or a truth that sheds a tear?"

She shook her head. "Why are you even 'helping'?" She made quotation signs with her fingers. When I didn't say anything, she sighed and walked off.

* * *

Why was I helping the actors with their lines? Part boredom, I guess. It was something to do while I was stuck on detention. But to be honest, there was another reason. It was _so_ easy. I'd listen to Zack Paris's stupid dialogue, and just say the same thing the way normal people talk. I even kind of enjoyed it-you know, the way you can't help but like bowling if it turns out you're good at it. Hey, if Zack Paris had used my dialogue, maybe **Old Shep, My Pal **wouldn't be such a lousy book, and I wouldn't be spending all my afternoons in the gym.

* * *

**A/N: So the little scene where Brittany confronts Alvin was suggested to me by Alvinatty4Ever. So it belongs to them, too. How do you think things are going to turn out between Alvin and Brittany? Will they ever be friends, or forever enemies? Review please! :)**


	8. Craziness

**A/N: I recently wrote a one-shot called "Leader of the Pack". The reviews are claimed "constructive", and I thank you for taking the time to review that story, but whatever you're telling me I already know thanks to "someone", ok?**

**Anyways, I haven't update this story for a while, am I right? :) This chapter is called Craziness for a soon-to-be obvious reason. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 8: Craziness **

**Brittany's POV**

_Dear Julia,_

_Hi, it's Brittany again. I'm sorry to bother you so much, but I never thought that a simple play could get so complicated. Remember Alvin Seville? In my last letter, I told you he was nothing more than a good-looking jock with an attitude. But now I'm starting to see that he's smarter than that. He's dangerous!_

_Not only am I positive that he's the culprit behind _**Old Shep, Dead Mutt **_and the big cable knot, but now I see all that is just a smoke screen to cover up his real plan. By pretending to help out, he's winning over the confidence of the cast and crew, and making changes one by one to destroy our play. It's his revenge for getting kicked off the football team. And I'm the only one who realizes it..._

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my whole life!"

I wheeled to find Charlene reading over my shoulder.

"Are you crazy?" I roared. "This is a private letter!"

"You're writing to Julia Roberts about Alvin Seville and _I'm _crazy?"

I could feel myself blushing crimson. "When I write to famous actresses, I don't really expect them to read my letters. I just do it as a form of self-expression. It's almost like keeping a journal or diary."

She looked unconvinced. "Do you mail them?"

"Well-yeah," I admitted.

She was shocked. "Brittany, how could you? Julia Roberts is going to think that Alvin is some kind of gangster!"

"Char, I know you like him," I said patiently. "But after all he's done to us, how can you take his side?"

"Because he's a gifted playwright," she said stubbornly. "Not to mention, adorable, a football hero, and someone who could get us invited to all the coolest parties!"

Charlene seemed to think there was this ultra-hip "scene" out there, where rock stars, the rich and famous, and the beautiful people (but not Charlene Davis) hung out together. Oh, I'm sure it existed somewhere, but definitely not at the Shakopee Super 8. And I doubt you could join it by dating a middle-school football player, even the celebrated Alvin Seville.

I was so upset, I couldn't enjoy the evening out my dad planned for the whole family in honor of Mom's birthday. We were driving in to New York to see a real Broadway play. I'd been excited for weeks because the theater is my whole life. (Now, thanks to **Old Shep, My Pal**, I got a queasy feeling in my stomach every time I heard the word "play.")

My brother didn't make things any easier. "Why do we have to go to a dumb old play?" he whined for most of the hour-long drive. "I hate plays."

"You love the theater," my mother said in surprise. "Remember how much you enjoyed _Cats_?"

"That was before a stupid play ruined the Sabers," Troy growled, "and stuck Alvin Seville on detention."

There it was. Alvin Seville was following me to New York (courtesy of Troy).

"Your hero is on detention because of his own big mouth," I said sourly. "And if Simon Spitzner had his way, he'd be on death row."

My father was astonished. "You know Alvin Seville? What's he like?"

_...you see, Julia? My own father, my own brother, my own best friend! If you were shooting a movie, and Brad Pitt was out to ruin it, but your agent, your manager, and your lawyer refused to believe it just because he was the great Brad Pitt, wouldn't you be really mad? That's how I feel._

_But enough about me. What's new in your life? And blockbuster movies in the works? Don't costar with Brad Pitt. Ha, ha. Just kidding._

_Your fellow actress,  
Brittany Miller_

* * *

"Alvin," Theodore called the next day at rehearsal, "this speech doesn't sound natural to me."

Ms. Ortega stepped in. "We've changed that part."

"I can't get into my character's mind," Theodore insisted.

That made Simon wince. "Two weeks ago, you tried out for this role to make up for an F in art. Now, suddenly, you have to get inside Morry Lamont's head?"

But Alvin was already climbing up the stairs to the stage. My back teeth were clenched so tight that I could feel the tension headache coming on. These were the moments I had come to dread most. Fix this! Cut that! And nobody seemed to be able to stop him.

Alvin took Theodore's script. "Let me see."

"No way," the director persisted. "You've already rewritten this speech. Every single word. All ten lines."

"Well, that's the whole problem," Alvin explained. "It's too long. Nobody does this much talking without something else going on."

"Like what?" Ms. Ortega demanded.

"Something real people do," Alvin said thoughtfully. He reached around and pulled the yo-yo out of Theodore's back pocket.

"Here." Alvin popped it into his hand. "Try playing with this when you give that speech. Be distracted. You're talking, but at the same time you're 'rocking the cradle.'"

The strangest feeling began to come over me. My ears burned, then roared. I started fidgeting because I couldn't keep my feet still.

"Now, just one minute!" ordered Ms. Ortega. "There are no yo-yos in **Old Shep, My Pal**."

"It's just something for the audience to watch," Alvin insisted. "I mean, this whole play is nothing but a bunch of knuckleheads standing around talking."

My script slipped out of my clammy hands and hit the gym floor.

"That's not true!" Ms. Ortega countered angrily. "They're nursing Old Shep!"

"And where's Old Shep?" the creep argued. "You've got a basket with a blanket in it. This is a dog play with no dog."

I was going to faint, or die, or something! I had to let it out somehow!

Ms. Ortega chuckled. "That's just for rehearsals. Of course we'll use a stuffed animal for the performance. Old Shep's been hit by a motorcycle before the play even starts. All he has to do is lie in the basket."

"That's the biggest problem of all," Alvin told him.

And suddenly, the pressure that had been building up inside of me let go with the force of an atomic bomb.

"_OH, YEAH?!"_

The shocked silence that followed was so total, I could hear the echo of my scream bounce off every wall in the gym.

"_Tell us, Mr. Expert!_" I howled at Alvin. "_Let's see what kind of writing talents a person gets from diving on a football! Let's hear it, since you know better than the whole drama club, better than our director who had a play produced in New York, and better than Zack Paris, who ONLY wrote a classic, and never fell on a football once!_"

Alvin Seville may have been a star athlete, but I guess he'd never seen anybody go berserk before, because he looked just plain scared. I wasn't expecting that. And after all my shouting, I found myself almost at a loss for words.

"I-I'm sorry," was all I could manage. "I mean, I'm not sorry-but I'm sorry for yelling."

"Brittany's right," said Alvin, very subdued. "This is none of my business." He started off the stage.

And it would have been over-all of it!-if Theodore hadn't opened up his yap.

"Alvin, don't go! We need your help! What were you going to tell us about our play?"

Alvin sighed. "It's been a very long afternoon." He turned to Ms. Ortega. "Can I leave now? I promise I won't go anywhere near football practice."

"But you were going to tell us about a problem!" Charlene shrilled. "The biggest one of all, you said!"

The whole cast and crew started encouraging Alvin.

Ms. Ortega held her head. "All right, let's hear it."

Reluctantly, Alvin spoke up. "I'm no expert, but this seems like common sense. In the story of **Old Shep, My Pal**, the most exciting event is when the dog gets run over by a motorcycle. And you've taken out that part before the play even starts. Which means no one gets to see any action, ever."

"This is a school play, Alvin!" exploded Ms. Ortega. "What do you want me to do-buy a thirty-thousand-dollar Harley? Hire a stunt man to ride it? And a professional stunt dog, along with his trainer? Where do I send away for that? Hollywood?"

Inside, I was applauding, but I never said a word. I was planning to keep my mouth shut for a good long time.

"You know, it doesn't have to be a real motorcycle," Theodore put in. "My mom has an old moped she'd probable let us use."

"It doesn't matter!" Ms. Ortega insisted. "We don't have the resources to hire a trained dog, or to train one of our own. Let's get real here, people, and do what we _can_ do."

But Alvin wasn't done yet. "Ms. Ortega, what about one of those little remote-control cars? If we attach the toy dog on top, one of the stagehands can work the remote, and the audience will see Old Shep running out into the road."

This was the craziest idea of all! Surely even an idiot could see that!

"It's brilliant!" screeched Charlene.

(Okay, maybe not a truly dedicated idiot.)

"Perfect!" Theodore was shaking with excitement. "We can glue on Old Shep so you'll never see the car underneath."

Eleanor nodded eagerly. "Then he crosses the street, and _bang_! The moped gets him."

"I love it!" raved Jeanette. "What a great beginning! The audience will be hooked!"

I was horrified. Half the actors started volunteering their little brothers' and sisters' remote-control cars.

"Hold it, people!" The director tapped for silence, and got none. Excited chatter filled the gym. The stagehands were fighting over who would get to ride the moped; the set designers wanted to build a stop sign for where the accident would take place.

"I'll work the remote control!"

"No, _I'll _work the remote control!"

"_QUI-ET!_"

Ms. Ortega ended my brief reign as the loudest yeller in the gym. Her voice was a foghorn.

"I don't want to hear another word of this," the director said sternly. "We will begin our play where Zack Paris began his book. And that's final."

"But Ms. Ortega!" protested Charlene. "You told us that a play belongs to its actors."

"Yes," the teacher replied. "_This_ play. But the kind of changes you're talking about make it some other play."

"Yeah! A better one!" exclaimed Theodore earnestly.

And the babble started up again.

"Ms. Ortega's right!" Simon pleaded into the ruckus. "Let's listen to our director!"

Forget it. The gym was pandemonium. Big, affable Theodore was waving his arms and howling. Charlene's high-pitched, strident voice ran out like a policeman's whistle. Everton Wu, a tiny, shy fifth-grade stagehand, was right in Ms. Ortega's face, registering his protest.

But Ms. Ortega hadn't gotten a real play produced in New York by letting herself be pushed around. She put up with the shouting for a while, and then she laid down the law.

"All right, people, listen up," the teacher commanded. "This is our play, and this is how it's going to be performed. If anybody is unwilling to do that, let me know, and I'll begin looking for your replacement."

In all the time Charlene and I had been friends (forever), I'd never seen her so angry.

I begged her to be reasonable. "The first rule of drama is to listen to the director. The director is like the _president_ of the play."

"That's not true!" Her response was bitter. "If you don't like the president, you can vote him out of office. But nobody ever voted for Ms. Ortega!"

* * *

**A/N: I'm really sorry if Ms. Ortega seems out of character. But since this is CGI, and the Chipmunks are human, she was my only parody of Mr. Fogelman from the original story. I also haven't watched much of the cartoon series, except for the Chipmunk Adventure movie and AATC Meet the Wolfman, and then the occasional episode. So sorry about that! Anyways, review please, but preferably no "constructive" criticism. That you can PM me. :)**


	9. They always know how to hurt you

**A/N: Hello everyone! I'm back! I got a review asking where all the romance is, and don't worry regular girl, there will be some. I can't say where exactly without spoiling _something_, but do not fear, ok? Anyways, this chapter is from Ms. Ortega's POV. Also, the rating changed from T to K+ when I looked it over. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 9: They always know how to hurt you**

**Ms. Ortega's POV**

**MEMO: Talk to Coach Wrigley**

It was two weeks ago that I approached the coach in the faculty room. I felt he should hear it from me that it didn't look like Alvin would be writing his review any time soon.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seville is a pretty straight kid. Stubborn."

I rolled my eyes. "Tell me about it."

The coach pulled himself another coffee. "What exactly has he done?"

"He's pulled a smart-aleck routine over my book review project," I explained. "I thought an afternoon of detention might make my point. Now I'm getting dirty looks from students in the hall. I ordered a pizza last night, and when I gave my name, the girl on the phone said, 'You'd better let Alvin Seville come back to the Sabers.'"

Wrigley handed me a cup. "Shakopee has never won anything before. Now that they're champions, they expect to compete every year. Believe me; I'm feeling the heat because we're losing."

"What do you do about it?" I asked.

"I don't order any pizzas, that's for sure."

I sat down on the couch. "And Alvin is such a good player that my detention puts you in last place?"

"Nah!" He shook his head. "If Seville could make the difference for the Sabers, I'd be all over you to give the kid a break."

"But everybody says-" I began.

"Trust me. Our lousy season has nothing to do with Alvin Seville."

I liked Coach Wrigley. I was glad there were no hard feelings between us. I stood up. "One last thing. You know Alvin. How long do you think it'll take before he sees it my way?"

Wrigley pointed ominously out the small window. "That parking lot is paved with the bones of teaches who are still waiting for Seville to see it their way."

**MEMO: Stay the course. Don't panic.**

Maybe I should have listened to the coach's warning. But how could I have predicted what Alvin would do to our play. I can barely _describe_ it! I tried to, to my husband, Toby, and I wound up sounding like a fool:

"Well, at first everybody loved him because he was a football star. Then they hated him because he spray-painted 'Old Shep, Dead Mutt' on the Lamont house. Now they love him again because he helped them punch up their lines, but they hate _me_ because I won't let them use a moped to run over a stuffed dog on a toy car."

"You're under a lot of stress," he came up with.

"But it's _true_!" I insisted.

Charlene Davis summed it up during one of the three visits she made to my office that day. "Alvin showed us how to turn a typical yawn of a school play into something awesome. How can we go back to the old way?"

**MEMO: You don't have to explain yourself. You're the director.**

Rehearsals were a nightmare. The actors were depressed and demoralized, and the scenery painters didn't care anymore. When Jeanette showed me the Lamont house, it was nothing but a big, blank backdrop, with two square windows, and a rectangular door drawn in Magic Marker.

I stared at her. "That's it?"

"Yep." I could almost feel the arctic blast.

"But what about the bricks?" I persisted. "And the curtains! The shutters! The flowerpots! The trees and the ivy! What happened to the chimney? Your sketches were beautiful! This is-nothing!"

"We all talked it over," she explained, "and since you won't let Alvin turn our play into something special, what's the point of having good scenery?"

"But Alvin isn't even _in_ our play!" I argued. "None of this makes any difference to him!"

**MEMO: Reason with the kids.**

On my lunch hour, I approached Eleanor in the science lab. She got so agitated that she forgot to watch an experiment that had taken her two days to set up. I cornered Charlene in the girls' change room, and she was just as angry. As soon I said Alvin had no authority, she turned on the hair dryer so it was impossible to hear me. It was the same thing with Leo in the gym. When I mentioned rehearsal, he shot up the rope so fast that he set a sixth-grade record for the county. Now Wrigley wants him to quit the play and try out for gymnastics.

**MEMO: Never try to reason with kids. You'll go crazy.**

As the week progressed, my cast and crew took to coming in late, and in some cases, not showing up at all. Out of forty-five kids, I had thirty-three on Monday, only twenty-eight on Tuesday. By Wednesday, I was down to nineteen.

The frustration was mind-numbing. During my off-Broadway run in New York, my actors had been waiters and garbage collectors and revolutionaries. I had to take a taxi to Police Plaza at four in the morning to bail my leading lady out of jail. Now I knew the truth: Those were the good old days.

**MEMO: Get help from the prinicipal.**

I left Simon in charge of rehearsal, and headed for Dr. Chechik's office.

"Okay, everybody," announced Simon. "Let's do Scene Two, where we bring Old Shep home."

It was an ordinary thing that could've come from any director. But the whiny, obnoxious, self-important way Simon said it got under everyone's skin. I paused at the door as the actors took their sweet time shuffling up to the stage.

"Hurry up, hurry up," Simon nagged.

"Let's go, people," I added.

"Alvin, I'm not too thrilled with my line here-" Theodore complained.

Simon cut him off. "We're not asking Alvin anymore! He shouldn't even be here."

Alvin stood up. "In that case, I'll be at football practice."

"No! You're on detention! If you leave, I'm telling!"

Charlene rolled her eyes. "Spitzner, were you born a dork, or did you have to get a degree?"

**MEMO: You don't put Simon in charge of an anthill. Pretty soon the ants would all be rising up to kill him.**

I postponed my trip to the office. "That's enough." I clapped my hands. "Places, everybody."

"Hey, what's that?" asked Brittany.

I followed her pointing finger to a jump rope that hung down from the top of the tall scenery board, dangling in front of the painting of the house.

"Maybe my character snuck out last night to meet her boyfriend," said Charlene, flashing Alvin a dazzling smile. "I'm very romantic, you know."

**MEMO: Beware of hormones. You will never defeat them.**

"This isn't supposed to be here," Simon said in annoyance. He grabbed the end of the jump rope and yanked.

His face radiated pure horror when he realized what was on the other end of the cord. It was a bucket that stood balanced on top of the scenery board. As it fell, it tipped over, releasing a dense cloud of black pepper right onto my actors' heads.

Charlene was the first to sneeze. But I couldn't tell who was second, because it was an epidemic of coughing and hacking and sputtering. I ran for the stage, but as soon as I got close, the spicy powder went straight up my nose. My eyes filled with water, and I stopped in my tracks, wheezing.

"Ow!" cried Simon as the bucket bounced off his head. He fell, and his collision with the floor raised up another cloud of pepper. Down there, he was kicked and stepped on by the others in their mad scramble to brush themselves off and escape the airborne powder. And above the symphony of sneezes rose another sound, a deep, hearty laugh that could only have belonged to Alvin Seville.

I tried to yell, "Can it, Alvin!" But when I opened my mouth, more pepper got in, and I ended up choking and spitting instead.

Through watery eyes, I was aware of a blurry commotion of moving shapes. As my vision cleared, I saw Alvin leading the victims one by one away from the pepper storm.

"If you wanted to help," came Brittany's raspy voice, you could have not done this in the first place!"

After a couple of quiet days, she was back to her old self, except now she had even less patience for Alvin Seville than I did.

At that moment, Simon, who was still blinded and sneezing, struggled to his feet.

"Careful!" I cried.

He wobbled backward, and then stepped clear off the edge of the stage.

In a flash, Alvin was there. He caught the smaller Simon in outstretched arms. There they were, in the pose of a groom carrying his bride across the threshold.

I was just about to lace into Alvin for planting that bucket of pepper when the entire cast and crew burst into applause and cheers.

"Bravo!"

"Nice catch, Alvin!"

"It's your best play since the touchdown!"

It dawned on me like a new day. _This_ was exactly what was missing from our play! Our cast-happy, laughing, excited, united. It was the kind of enthusiasm that couldn't be manufactured.

**MEMO: Seize that energy and harness it for the good of the production.**

Well, I had to do _something_. Otherwise, we might be down to ten people at tomorrow's rehearsal, and only five on Friday. Next week, I'd have to cancel the play altogether.

I raised my hand for order. "Listen up, people. I've got something important to say."

"Ms. Ortega," piped Simon, "Make Alvin put me down!"

Obligingly, Alvin dropped his arms, and Simon clattered to the hard floor.

"Ow!"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," I went on. "Since everybody's so enthusiastic, I've decided that we should try the first scene your way."

There was dead silence, and the Charlene burst out, "You mean _Alvin's_ way?"

**MEMO: They always know how to hurt you.**

It killed me to _reward_ Alvin for vandalizing our play. I reminded myself that I had no proof that this had been his doing. "I mean the proposed new scene with the moped and the remote-control car to move the dog-"

I didn't get a chance to finish because pandemonium broke out. There was so much backslapping and jumping for joy that yet another cloud of pepper was raised from people's clothes and hair. That brought on more sneezing, only this time it was happy sneezing. Even Alvin looked sort of pleased, a welcome change from his usual scowl of defiance. At least he was coughing and spitting now, too, caught by his own dirty trick.

Brittany approached me, fanning away pepper with her script. "Why did you do it, Ms. Ortega?" Her reddened eyes conveyed deep anguish. "Why?"

"I know it sounds crazy," I replied. "But I really think this is the only way."

Now who was going to convince _me_?


	10. What's with the pepper?

**Chapter 10: What's with the pepper?**

**Alvin's POV**

"Attaway, Sabers!"

"Let's go, team!"

I scrunched down into my hood in the hope that the two noisy fans in the next row wouldn't call attention to me. I had agonized a lot over whether or not I should go to the Sabers' third game. By this time, everyone in Shakopee but the pigeons knew about my detention and my disgrace. But that didn't stop them from nagging: What went wrong? What are you doing to fix it? And the everlasting Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Brody Schmidt calls my house so often these days that he and my dad were turning into phone buddies.

So I was sort of in disguise. The hood of my windbreaker covered all my hair, a big muffler concealed my mouth and nose, and a headband fixed it so that only my eyes were showing. Trouble was, we were having Indian summer, and it was seventy-six degrees. I thought I was going to melt!

The Sabers were doing pretty well, grinding out yardage in a tight defensive game. Blahowski's four field goals had given them a 12-7 lead. I watched the whole thing with sweat pouring into my stinging eyes. Underneath my layers of camouflage, I was as wet as if I'd just climbed out of a swimming pool.

But I was happy in my sogginess. The guys were having their best Saturday this year. With the ball and less than a minute to go, all they had to do was run out the clock. Once they'd won a game without me, surely Xavier and the team would see that I wasn't indispensable.

"Hey, son," said the man next to me as he took off his shirt. "You look like you're having a heart attack. Why are you dressed for the North Pole?" Helpfully, he reached out, pulled off my headband and hood, and pushed down my scarf. I was out in the open.

And fate had put that little kid, Troy, Brittany Miller's brother, a few seats away.

"_Hey, everybody!_" he shrieked in a voice that carried all through the stadium. "_Look! It's Alvin Seville!_"

Everybody _did_ look. And you could hear a gigantic _"Al-vin" _as hundreds of people mumbled my name, passing it from tongue to tongue like trench mouth.

"_Alvin?!_"

I recognized _that_ voice. It was Xavier Falconi on the field, gazing up into the stands looking for me instead of keeping his eyes on-

"_The ball, Xavier!_" I bellowed. "_Watch the ball!_"

The snap bounced off Xavier's helmet and wobbled into the backfield, where it was picked up by the biggest, strongest, slowest lineman on the other team.

"_Hit him!_" I cried.

And they did. Some of them bounced off. Those who managed to hang on were dragged seventy yards down the field by the enormous lineman. Xavier, who was clamped onto an ankle, was repeatedly slapped against the turf like a flyswatter as the big kid returned the fumble for the winning touchdown.

Ouch.

* * *

The mood in the locker room was despair-minus-minus. I should have snuck home, but I felt kind of responsible for this, our third loss. And it wouldn't have been right to duck out on the team.

You could tell that Xavier wanted me dead. "I refuse to see you, Alvin!" The poor guy was one extended bruise from his trip down the field attached to that runaway locomotive. "I saw you once already, and look what happened!"

I indicated my heavy clothes. "I was trying not to be noticed. But then some guy pulled down my hood."

"If you were on the field where you belong," Ryan said sourly, "nobody could pull down your hood."

"And we would've won," added Xavier.

"It wasn't a total disaster," I argued. "You really showed something out there. If it wasn't for that last play, you had it kicked."

"It was a disaster, all right," Xavier moaned. "By any stretch of the means."

X-ism math: _By any stretch of the imagination + By any means = By any stretch of the means._

Blahowski stepped forward, and I knew the rough ride was only beginning. "This was a close game, Alvin," he declared loudly. Because he called me Alvin, and not some nasty double nickname, I realized that his true audience was the team and not me. "I scored twelve points, so a star like you could have gotten at least that many. We would have won by a mile!"

A chorus of grumbles bubbled up in the locker room.

"We need you on the team, not in the gym!"

"We're getting killed out there!"

"We're 0 and three!"

Silence fell as Coach Wrigley stepped out of from his office. He gave me a crooked smile. "Congratulations, Seville. I see your public hasn't forgotten you."

"Sorry, Coach," I murmured.

He clapped me on the shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. Relax. Go home. Maybe even- write a book review."

I just couldn't look him in the eye. Instead, I concentrated on the concrete floor, my sneakers, Xavier's muddy cleats, Ryan's open locker-

I froze. There on the shelf beside Ryan's wadded-up sweat socks stood a two-pound box of ground black pepper. I had a vision of the cast and crew of **Old Shep, My Pal** coughing and sneezing in a big black cloud.

"Hey Ryan-" I hardly recognized my own voice. "What's with the pepper?"

He made a face. "It's for the celery, to disguise the taste."

"Yeah," I insisted, "but two pounds?"

"Ever eaten celery?" He snorted. "Two pounds isn't enough."

* * *

As it turned out, I wasn't the only one thinking about the attacks on **Old Shep, My Pal**. First thing Monday morning, I got called to the principal's office.

Dr. Chechik spent the first few minutes showing me his poster-size blow-up of me scoring the winning touchdown. The next few minutes he devoted to telling me that I couldn't expect any special treatment because of it.

I kind of liked our principal. He was a straight-up guy who got right to the point. He asked if I did it, and I said no. But then he caught me off guard:

"Do you have any idea who might be responsible?"

I was stuck. I couldn't tell him my suspicions about Ryan. After all, the kid had a good reason for keeping a lockerful of pepper. Besides, I'd never rat out a friend. But I couldn't lie either.

"I can't say for sure," I replied. The "for sure" made it okay.

When I left the office, my head was spinning. Why would Ryan have a grudge against the play? The answer was simple. The whole Sabers team was mad at Ms. Ortega over my detention. Ryan was the most obvious suspect because of the pepper. But it could also be Xavier, or Kevin Wilkerson, or any of those guys who were dumb enough to believe I was a big star.

And what about Blahowski? He didn't want me back on the Sabers, but he sure got a charge out of watching me suffer. He could be doing all this to set me up. Pinning the blame on me would guarantee that my detention would go on forever. Come to think of it, Blahowski seemed to know a lot about what was happening to the play. Was that because he was making it happen?

When I walked out of the office, Brody Schmidt was sulking on the bench. I'll bet he's been hiding there ever since he'd heard my name paged over the P.A.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to come anywhere near me!" I snarled.

He waved the the slightly damaged tape recorder in my face. "Did your meeting with the principal have anything to do with your ongoing holdout from the Sabers?"

What an idiot! He even sounded like his stupid articles.

But then I got an idea. For some strange reason, a lot of kids read the _Standard_ and talked up Brody's columns. If I leaked to Brody that Dr. Chechik was looking into the attacks on **Old Shep, My Pal**, chances are the bad guy would read it and back off. Then I wouldn't have to take blame anymore, and Brittany Miller could stop yelling at me. Fat chance.

So I sat down and gave him all the facts. He looked at me suspiciously the whole time. You could tell Brody wasn't used to having a real story to write. He did most of his hard-hitting journalism on PTA fundraisers, stuffing himself on complementary brownies.

"That's why Dr. Chechik paged me," I finished. "He's heard about the attacks on the play, and he's determined to get to the bottom of it."

"And he needs your help," Brody concluded.

"Well, he asked me about it," I explained. "I guess that counts as helping. But the important thing is he's on the case. Got it?"

Brody patted his tape recorder. "This is a real scoop. Thanks a lot, Alvin."

As he walked away, I remember thinking maybe people were too hard on Brody Schmidt. He wouldn't make so many mistakes if more kids would take the time to answer his questions.


	11. Alvin Seville, Secret Agent

**Chapter 11: Alvin Seville, Secret Agent**

**The Shakopee Middle School Weekly Standard**

"**Alvin Seville, Secret Agent"**

By Brody Schmidt, Staff Reporter

* * *

The Standard has learned the true reason behind superstar Alvin Seville's holdout from the Sabers. The hero of last year's championship game has been recruited by Dr. Chechik to be the principal's eyes and ears in the school.

The new role is so top-secret that Dr. Chechik himself refused to acknowledge that such an arrangement has been made. There was no comment on whether or not this undercover spy work would raise the incomplete that Seville is currently receiving in English...

His responsibilities will include keeping an eye on every single one of us and reporting directly to the office. And while some may consider this job description as "professional rat," this reporter considers it a bold step toward law and order here at Shakopee Middle School.

* * *

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long. Did ya miss me? Okay, on my profile there's this new poll. It asks how old you are. Please answer! I can't see who answered what, so feel safe. And on the archive page I'm looking at authors and checking their popularity. If you're popular enough I'll PM you and ask you to either tell me your age in a response or vote on my poll. Please participate! And please review! :)**


	12. No play, no gardening

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I'm not dead. Just superbly busy. I'll try to update more often now. :) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 12: If you're not on the team, we're not your gardeners**

**Alvin's POV**

I was halfway up the tree, pruning off dead branches when I saw Xavier and Ryan. Right on schedule. Every fall, the guys on the team came over to help me spread Lawn-Gro on the grass. It was just another chore I didn't want my dad to have to do-especially when there was a n entire football team who could knock it off in two seconds. And even though one of them-maybe a close friend-was the jerk who was attacking the play, that still left a whole lot of pretty good guys who deserved the benefit of the doubt from me.

I waved. "I'm up here!"

"Hang on with two hands, Alvin!" Xavier shouted up at me. "How are you going to get back to the team if you break both your necks?"

I had to laugh. "Maybe I'll just break one of my necks, and I'll still have a spare for football." I clipped off a brown twig with my pruning shears. "I'll be done with this in a few minutes. That'll give the others a chance to get here."

There was so much throat-clearing and coughing down there that I decided I'd better cut my work short. I clambered lower on the trunk and dropped to the grass at their feet. "What's going on? Are the others going to be late?"

Ryan shuffled uncomfortably. "There _are_ no others," he mumbled.

"Sure there are," I told him. "I asked a whole bunch of guys-all the wide receivers and at least three defensive backs."

"And did they tell you they were coming?" Xavier challenged.

"No," I said. "They never do. And they always come. Where's Kevin? I figured him for the weeding. He has great eyes for dandelion spotting."

Ryan cleared his throat carefully. "Kevin said if you're not on the team, he's not your gardener."

I snickered. "Come on, Ryan. Where is everybody? Hiding over by the 7-Eleven?"

Xavier gave me an agonized look. "You're not listening, man!"

I peered down the street in both directions. Nobody.

It must seem like I'm a pretty big idiot because it was taking me so long to clue in. But this was a big leap for my mind. I'd always thought my teammates came to help me because they were my _friends_. And they understood how important it was for me to pull my weight and help Dad. I never thought it had anything to do with football. Football was just how I knew them.

"It was Blahowski, right?" I asked. "He's behind this."

"You've got to look at it through the team's eyes," pleaded Ryan, his face open and sincere. "They're getting shelled every week. Then they open up the _Standard_ and read how you're holding out for better grades, or spying for Chechik."

"That's just Brody!" I exclaimed. "The guy's less than stupid! Nobody believes his stuff!"

"Maybe," shrugged Xavier. "But it seems like you're not even _trying _to get back. And they think, hey, if the cake fits, eat it."

I admit it. I was bitter. "So are you guys here now because you're my friends, or because you think you can get me to write a review of **Old Shep, My Pal**?"

"Of course we're your friends!" Ryan exclaimed.

"But if you want to write the essay, that would be good, too," Xavier added eagerly.

It was impossible to stay mad at those two, especially with a whole lawn that needed fertilizing.

We took turns pulling weeds and pushing the spreader back and forth across the yard. And just when we were almost done, the delivery van from Chee-Zee Pizza whipped around the crescent, and pulled into our driveway, leaving tire tracks along the corner of the lawn.

"Hey!" I yelled.

The door of the van opened, and out stepped BillyBob. Even though BillyBob, or BB, was older than we were, he was in eighth grade at our school. This family was from Hungary, and he was veing held an extra year in middle school to work on his English.

I think moving to Shakopee from Budapest must have been a great deal, because BB is always cheerful. Even when he apologized for driving over our freshly fertilized lawn, he seemed pretty happy about it.

"Oops!" He beamed. "Sorry." He brushed off his Chee-Zee Pizza uniform and shook hands with all three of us. Hand-shaking was not big at Shakopee Middle School, but I guess nobody told BillyBob. To me he said, "I heard you wanted to see me."

The thing about BB was that he was sixteen, and had just gotten his driver's license. You had to be sixteen to ride a moped. Now, we only needed it for thirty seconds in the opening scene of **Old Shep, My Pal**. But Ortega was being a jerk about it, big surprise.

"Someone has to ride Theodore's mom's moped in the school play," I explained, "and you're the only one who's old enough to do it. What do you say?"

"Wow! Really? _Me_?" This was just another one of those things that pleased BillyBob to pieces. He enfolded me in a giant bear hug, and shook hands again with Ryan and Xavier.

Xavier frown, perplexed. "Wait a minute, Alvin. How come you're lining guys up for **Old Shep, My Pal**?"

"Yeah," echoed Ryan. "What's the play got to do with _you_?"

I shrugged. "Nothing, really. I'm stuck down there every day, and their rehearsals are so bad that sometimes you just have to say something. If they take it for advice, it's not my fault."

Ryan was obviously suspicious. "So why are you helping? Advice isn't the same as finding a guy to ride a moped."

"It's just this once," I explained. "Otherwise Ortega was going to ride it herself. She's so clueless, and I knew BB, and what the heck-why not?"

BillyBob suffocated me with another emotional hug. "It's my honor to work with Alvin Seville!"

"I don't like it," Xavier said ominously. "I smell a fish in here somewhere."

"You don't smell a fish," I reassure him. There's nothing to smell."

"Right," agreed BillyBob. "I'll see you at our rehearsal, Alvin."

As BB got back in the van, I could see Xavier and Ryan watching him-and me-with narrowed eyes.

* * *

**A/N: One more question: When does the narwal bacon? If you know the answer, review it or PM me! If you don't, then forget I said anything.**


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